My life can be distilled into three little words: I move things. I am the laundress. I move our clothes from the basket, to the washer, to the dryer and then, if it’s a perfect day, back to the drawer, folded neat. I am the chef, the chief cook and bottle washer. I move our very sustenance from the grocery aisle, to the car, to the fridge, to the oven and finally to the table where we gather hands and pray and laugh at the end of the day.

“Moving things” has taken on a fresh nuance as my children are getting older. I find a new function as the chauffeur. I pack my Suburban full of children and move my kids to school, to ballet, to baseball, to piano lessons and back home again. I am also a home-schooling mom of my littlest two. I move papers—so many papers.

Every so often, I try to move myself. I run around the track. I go to Pilates class and will my abdominal muscles to flex and pull, but postpartum recovery times six has taken a toll on my body. The moving gets harder.

The days move with the tedium of life–the same humble tasks performed time and again. I admit a bit of weariness with this, then I read about God’s heart–how He never rests, how His blood always pleads. He is not weary with the provision. Every day, He clothes me with His righteousness, feeds me with Life Bread, teaches me of His ways, moves me deeper into His heart. Circadian grace. In Him we live and move and have our being. (Acts 17:28)